


1947: His Favorite Delirium

by I_Skavinsky_Skavar



Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, F/M, Fugitive, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Skavinsky_Skavar/pseuds/I_Skavinsky_Skavar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1947, Steve Rogers was found by the US Navy. He made a full physical recovery, but the extreme cold had caused enough brain damage to erase the two years of his life prior to his freeing from his memory.</p><p>In a bid to help him regain his memories, the SSR reintroduces him to various people he knew during his service, except for one person. One woman that everybody pretends never existed. The woman who takes it upon herself to help Rogers, no matter what it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1947: His Favorite Delirium

**Camp** **Lehigh**

 **Latham** **, New York**

**March, 1947**

 

It had been an odd week for Brigadier General Chester Philips, so he wasn't entirely surprised when he began noticing signs of disturbance on his army base the closer he got to the medical facility. A few minutes later, he walked through a corridor toward Major Cole, sidestepping upturned carts and the men who tried to clear it all up.

 "Sir, Captain-"

"Captain Rogers woke up and ran amok like a headless chicken." Philips interrupted, "I heard about that. I gotta admit, I'm a little disappointed, I'd expected better of him. Still, that's got to be worth something that he can still raise hell. How many MPs'd take to stop him?"

"Oh, forty, give or take. Dr. Reinstein gave him a heavy dose of sedatives. There's something else, sir, he doesn't remember the last two years."

 Philips looked at his subordinate with the kid of look he found himself giving more and more as the years went by, not sure if West Point had been churning them out dumber, or if he was getting more irritable.

 "I'm just a mustang officer who never finished high school," Philips said, "But I'd say being stuck in a block of ice hampers a man's mental faculties."

"I mean from before he went M.I.A." Cole stammered, "He doesn't even remember getting into the Army."

 Philips stared with a blank expression for a moment.

 "Would you care to elaborate on that, Major?"

"Operation Rebirth, Operation Neptune, Operation Cauterize; he doesn't remember any of it. The last thing he remembers is trying to enlist in New Jersey."

"So what you're telling me, is that as far as Captain Rogers knows, he went to bed one night and woke up in 1947, half a foot taller and two hundred pounds heavier, as a commissioned officer of the United States Army. Is that what you're telling me, Tom?"

"I'm afraid so, Sir."

 Philips mumbled something that might've sounded like 'poor stupid son of a bitch', before he asked,

 "Alright, what does he know? Has he learned what year it is? Did anyone tell him what he did in the two years he forgot?"

"He wasn't in a talking mood, Sir. He panicked as soon as he woke up, though several of the MPs, as well as Dr. Reinstein addressed him as Captain Rogers."

 General Philips looked downward for a moment and took a deep breath.

 "He doesn't know the war is over. He doesn't know we won. He doesn't even know he's a soldier. In his mind, he's at that part of his life when he's absolutely nobody. He's going to reach out to someone, and that someone's not going to be there."

"Sir?"

"Captain Rogers' NCO was a man called Jim Barnes. They were best friends, knew each other since they were ten; practically brothers. Sergeant Barnes was K.I.A. a week before Captain Rogers disappeared. He's going to want to know what happened to him, and I'm going to have to tell him."

 

 

It was going on two weeks since the nightmare began. Every time Steve would wake up and expect to find himself sleeping on the couch while Bucky did pushups in the living room, and instead would be confronted by those dreary beige walls. He was beginning to loose the conviction that it was bound to end. He must've been trapped in a coma, all his ailments finally ganging up against him, suffering this bizarre dream.

What was worse, he might've not been dreaming. It could've all been true. It was all so detailed, so elaborate. A terrifying and surly man, an Army one-star General had visited him often, pretending to be nice and telling him he had a whole life in the Army that he just forgot, that he was a war hero and that Bucky was gone.

 They showed him pictures from his procedure, shaking hands with an elderly, dignified man that they said was a scientist called Erskine. They showed him medals, Purple Hearts and Distinguished Service Crosses, just like his father got. They gave him newspapers to read about how the Berlin paperhanger got taken care of.

 It wasn't the type of nightmare he'd normally have. His nightmares were visually-oriented, as befitting an illustrator, filled with emaciated men carrying their own severed heads and grotesque butchers wearing rusty helmets that were too small.

 The current state of affairs was more akin to a writer's nightmare, or perhaps was the truth.

 There was something different about beige-colored room that morning and it wasn't hard to figure out what. When he turned his head, Steve saw there was the man standing at the foot of the bed. He was tall and his hair was light brown, he wore a neat mustache and a military uniform with three stars on each shoulder. The uniform wasn't one like he'd ever seen before, not the least because of the maroon beret stuffed into the fold in his shoulder.

 "Good morning." The man said in a British accent of the likes he'd only heard in the pictures, "Please don't get too excited and hit me."

 Steve straightened up, embarrassed about his present state. He got on his larger-than-they-should-have-been feet, wondering who and how important the man was and wondered how he should act around him.

 "Who are you?"

"Captain James Falsworth. We're friends."

"Are we?"

"If we weren't, it was awfully magnanimous of you to lend me that tenner back in Belgium."

 Not knowing quite what to understand or say, Steve raised his hand and the British Captain took and shook it fondly, slapping him with the other on the shoulder as his lips stretched into a smile.

 "Damn good to see you again, Rogers."

"Thank you." Steve said awkwardly. The slap to the shoulder an odd sensation after a fortnight of an isolated existence.

 "How did we meet?"

"I was in a cage, and I looked up and there you were."

"What _?_ "

"I'm sorry." The Briton apologized with at least a little bit of guilt, "The doctors warned me from…. I was a prisoner of war in Austria. You rescued myself and three-hundred and eighty-seven other men. After that you asked me to be a member of your unit."

"We served together?"

"Yes. I was a lowly second lieutenant then. Your second-in-command, in fact."

"Really?" asked Steve, his eyebrows raised, "You? Not Bucky?"

 There was a brief pause before Falsworth answered forlornly, "No... Not Bucky."

"I meant no offense, I just…"

"It's alright. Sgt. Barnes _did_ undermine me with a degree of impunity. He was always more loyal to you than to the mission."

 Steve smiled for once and said, "Yeah, that sounds like him."

 With a little hesitation, Falsworth produced a folded photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Steve.

 "That's 1st Section, 2526th Strategic Scientific Reserve Special Operations Battalion," Falsworth said as he sat down, "Known among Axis forces as _The Invaders_ , and more famously among Allied forces as the _Howling Commandos_. It's us; our unit, your commanded."

 In the photograph stood a group of men, who carried expressions ranging from mischievously pleased to tired, some rested in or against one of a pair of Army jeeps pocked with bullet holes, while farther in the background loomed the wreckage of a gigantic tank.

 There was a Black man carrying a machine gun, an Oriental man who looked very annoyed, a large burly man in a ridiculous hat and an especially ridiculous mustache, a small man who seemed older than the rest, and then there was Falsworth, and Bucky, wearing a blue jacket, totting a Tommy gun, like he'd fantasized about doing years ago when he and Steve went to the pictures to see James Cagney in _G-Men_.

 And then there was a man wearing the gaudy uniform with a star on his chest. He could only imagine how really garish it would've looked in color. It was the same man he saw when he looked into a mirror, who everyone assured him was really him, and that he may have to accept was the truth.

 "That's you, yours truly and Sgt. Barnes at the front, obviously." Falsworth explained.

 "The Japanese fellow is Tech Corporal Jim Morita; squad radio technician. The black chap is Private First Class Gabriel Jones; machine gunner, interpreter and closest thing we had to a medic. The unfortunate soul with the hideous mustache and ghastly bowler is Corporal Timothy Dugan; weapons specialist and driver. The last man is Jacques Dernier; demolitions and explosives."

"What did Bucky do?"

"He was our sharpshooter. Damn good one, as well. In Belgium, lying in the snow all night and all morning, he held off a two Battalion of the SS by himself while the rest of us were struggling to do the same somewhere else. He was a good man."

 "Was…" Steve repeated.

"I thought they'd told you."

"They did. How did he go?"

"I wasn't there." Falsworth answered with a pinch of regret in his voice, "But you, Barnes and Jones had boarded a train in-transit by use of a zipline. Upon insertion you engaged the enemy onboard in a firefight. A carriage was damaged during the firefight, ripped open, and Barnes was blown out into the ravine bellow."

 Falsworth feared how his resurrected friend would react, and was surprised to see him react with no reaction at all, and it bothered him.

 "The one with the mustache?"

"Dugan."

"Yeah. What's he like? He looks, you know…"

"Bit of a nutter. Excellent billiards player."

 Falsworth talked a bit further about Dugan, and then some about Jones, and later about himself and the Regiment he was now a member of.

 An hour of idle chat later, Falsworth stood up, putting his hand forward.

 "Rogers, I'm afraid I have to leave." He said, "But I want you to remember, I'll be there should you ever need me, you just have to call. I'd also like to invite you to come visit me in Birmingham when you're able. Mother would love to meet the man who got her son out of Austria."

 Steve shook the man's hand after standing up, and nodded.

 "Thank you, Sir."

 Never had an expression of respect caused such grief in a man. During the war, the Howlers shirked military modes of address. There were no officers and enlisted men among those seven men, just brother in arms. The Captain was Cap, Steve or Rogers, Sgt. Barnes was Bucky, Cpl. Dugan was Dum-Dum, Dernier was Frenchie, and Falsworth was Falsworth, except when the others thought he was acting too lofty, which was when he was called _M'Lord_. For Falsworth, Steve addressing him as 'Sir' was beyond bizarre.

"So long." Falsworth said with a heavy heart.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Sir." Said Falsworth as he stood in Philips' office, "I did my best."

"I know you did, James. No need to apologize." Philips replied, sitting behind his desk, "You are dismissed."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"With respect, I request to be kept appraised of Captain Rogers' condition."

Philips seemed to consider it for a moment before he nodded and said, "Consider your request approve. You are dismissed, Captain."

Falsworth stepped back and did a half turned before leaving, at which point Philips turned his attention to Dr. Josef Reinstein, the overweight fifty year old geneticist sitting at his couch.

 "What now, Doctor?"

"Captain Falsworth invited him to stay with him in England." Dr. Reinstein said, his high-pitched, heavily German accented voice grating on Philips' nerves, "After some time, perhaps it would be beneficial for him to do so. The key is to try to trigger the resurgence of his memories through introducing him with elements that should be familiar. In the meantime, perhaps more of his friends could be brought in to visit him."

"Sure. Despite it being a security risk, I'm prepared to reactivate Gilmore Hodge and have him punch Rogers in the arm if it gets me the Captain back, but I'm going to want to expect results"

"Amnesia has no easy or tried fixes. It'll take time, and persistence, and plenty of luck for us to get Captain America back. The fact is there is no guarantee."

Philips prepared to rebuke the scientist with biting sarcasm, but lost the will to do it. He stood up, and reached for his garrison cap.

 "Well, thanks for shooting straight, Doctor. I'm heading for Washington, you can talk to Major Cole about anything you want."

"You mentioned the Captain had been close friends with a Sergeant Barnes. Was he as close to anyone else?"

"No. Falsworth and the rest were second best."

"Well, what about women?"

"There were no women." Philips answered glibly before he went for the door without another word.

 

 

Several months later, Steve hadn't regained any memory of events occurring in the period from March 1943 to March 1945. He'd been introduced to a number of people he supposedly knew in the hopes that they might coax memories back to life, soldiers he'd supposedly lead or people he'd allegedly saved. None were the least bit familiar, though he thought the one with the mustache was quite a character, and in the real world he'd have loved to sketch him.

Eventually he was released. The General informed him that they were keeping the news of his discovery under wraps, and that the Army would take care of their own. He was set up in New Jersey, where Steve is much less likely to be recognized. _Answer to the name_ ' _Patrick Collins'_ they said to him, should someone recognize him, the SSR agents would swoop in and achieve an understanding with whoever did the recognizing. He accepted it all with a nod and a resigned _'Okay'_. When going insane or riding out a nightmare, it was probably best to go with the flow.

After a week, it was clear that Rogers getting recognized wouldn't be much of a threat since he'd been holed up in his apartment the entire time, trading one beige painted room for another. Groceries were carried up every couple of days by the agents on site, the most excitement they were ever going to get on that assignment.

And so the weeks passed, mostly doing nothing but wait to be tired enough to sleep, until came the day when Captain Falsworth reiterated his invitation. Steve accepted, and one flight later, he found himself in England, staying as the Falsworth Manor in Birmingham.

To James Falsworth's credit, he genuinely seemed to show Steve a good time and come out of his shell instead of trying to make him remember. Falsworth, who as it turned out was a bona fide Baron, took him riding to hounds, rowing and tried to introduce him to golf.

Indoors, he was presented the best British cuisine had to offer, spending some time in the company of James's mother, Olivia, a very composed and dignified but ultimately caring matriarch, a great host and an excellent conversationalist who treated Steve with a degree of motherly affection.

It wasn't the worst place to be, or wouldn't be if it was real. It was all a little too much like the Jane Austen novels he read when Bucky wasn't looking, except Falsworth didn't have a pair of sisters who shared a fierce rivalry. He did have a brother, though. His name was John, and the moment he showed up, he felt a great dark cloud descend upon James and Olivia, and he would learn why soon enough.

Over dinner, John, who had recognized Steve from wartime newsreel footage, sought to let Steve know of how well he thought of German National Socialism. It was a surreal experience for Steve, breaking bread with a Nazi-sympathizer. He was sure he was in a coma then. He did nothing but stare, eyes wide, as John harangued him, spouting apologist rhetoric and condemning what he deemed a union of anarchists and communists, while James simmered in shame, until John eventually asked Steve something or another, about what it felt like to mutilate German children with impunity.

"I… I don't remember." Steve mumbled, and James lost his patience. The Falsworth brothers got into a row that moved them to another part of the manor. Olivia graciously apologized for John's behavior, and made light conversation until dinner was over and Steve excused himself. She made no attempt to keep him, desiring solitude, and her voice for once betrayed her feelings of shame and grief.

 

 

In the nearest pub he could find, Steve arrived at a new piece of evidence to support that he was dreaming. No matter how many pints of bitter he drank, he remained completely and utterly sober, feeling only the ever so slight tingle. He had very little doubt about it at the moment, and was wondering if when he was absolutely convinced was when he would wake up.

As he gestured for the bartender to get him another pint, he heard the bell on the door ring. Instinctively, he turned to see who the pub's newest patron was, but he could only a black-clad shoulder before they were obscured by the bodies standing between him and the door, and he lost interest. His pint arrived and he raised it to his lips, taking several swallows before setting the glass down, a little more than half full.

Right then, a whiff of a certain blend of smells filled his nostrils. Lilacs and almonds, overpowering the aroma of drink, sweat and smoke.

"Hello."

The voice was low and strong, like a viola, and for some reason it made the underside of his skin feel hot. He would've turned to seek out the speaker, but she came into view first. She was thirty years old, or thereabouts. She had a creamy white, blemish less complexion and full red lips. Her thick brown hair was impeccably styled and she wrapped a tall, curvy figure with a black wool coat that reached her calves. She was very beautiful, so much that she nearly inspired panic.

She turned her wide green eyes toward him as he she settled onto the stool next to him, and asked,

"This seat isn't taken, is it?"

"No." he answered in a near whisper, partly hoping that was the last of their small talk, for he couldn't handle making a idiot out of himself after everything else that was going on.

"Good. Are you having a nice night?"

It was a simple enough question, and after a good several moments, he came up with the answer.

"Yes."

To say women were never his strong suit would be an understatement. They were his weakest suit. He was beyond hopeless, beyond terrible. The handful of times he'd went on dates , touched or kissed a girl were due to Bucky's help and a lack of standards, or outright desperation on his dates' part.

Even in this dream, where he looked the way he looked, talking to a beautiful girl that was made-believe, he was a sad wreck. He told himself that she was just being polite, and that there was no need to talk to talk to the pretty, scary girl.

He raised his pint, and as the lager touched his lips, she asked him,

"What brings you to Birmingham?"

He awkwardly moved the mug away from his lips, spilling some on the bar and his own chin. He winced and his face blushed red, and he raised a sleeve to wipe the lager off his mouth, catching a glance at the girl who seemed not to have noticed or minded his lack of tact.

"I just asked because… Well you don't sound like a Brummie. Are you a soldier?"

"No. I'm visiting a friend."

"I see." She said.

"What'll it be, ma'am?" asked the barman.

"Scotch and Soda." Said the girl, before turning her attention back to Steve, "I'm Peggy."

"Er, Steve."

"You seem nervous, Steve." She said with a smile.

"Oh, do I?" Steve asked nervously.

"Indeed you do. Look, I don't mean to pry…"

"I guess I've had a strange last few months."

"How so?"

"Um, I don't want to get into it."

"I'm sorry. Am I bothering you?"

He nodded to the negative, feeling guilty to have ever done what it was that gave her that idea.

"I'm just trying to avoid being accosted by anyone tonight. If I'm seen talking with you, other men are far less likely to approach me. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, sure." Steve said, an unwanted smile stretching his mouth.

He tried to start drinking again, but it was difficult to do so with her around. Suddenly, there was a crash behind them, followed by shouts as someone blamed someone else who did not take kindly to it. With no buildup, Peggy dropped a few bills on the bar and grabbed Steve's wrist as she got off her stool.

"Let's go."

"Hhm?" Steve sounded as he put down his mug less than quietly, "You haven't even touched your drink."

"Forget it!" she said, her tone harder than it was moments ago, and Steve froze. She tugged on his wrist, which was not enough to move his bulk, and followed, "We haven't much time. We need to leave."

"Why?"

She stared at him momentarily, green eyes shimmering with panic.

"I need your help," she said with a trembling voice, "There's someone after me."

"Oh…" he said, and allowed her to pull him with her as she hastily headed for the backdoor.

 

 

He was standing in the ally, watching Peggy pour something out of a tin gallon, while an old and battered Ford waited nearby.

"What's going on?" Steve asked,

"Get in the car." She commanded.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Steve, get in the car."

Going with the flow as always, he did as she said. He got into the passenger seat while she jumped behind the wheel and turned on the engine.

"I'm afraid I've mislead you, Steve." Peggy said as she drove out of the ally. Steve was watching the back door, and as the car moved, he saw six men come running after them only to slip on whatever Peggy had spilled, before they were out of view.

"I haven't been completely honest with you."

"Oh…" Steve said, "You're a prostitute?"

Anger wasn't the emotion her features displayed at first. It was rather confusion, as if she wondered if she'd heard him correctly, which was followed by shock, and then anger.

"You…. _Have_ … NO. **IDEA** on how to act like a normal person around a woman, do you?"

"I'm sorry." Steve said guiltily, "I'm really sorry."

"What was it that I'd done that made you think I was a woman of the night, eh?" she all but screamed, "What would you know about it, anyway?"

"I don't know I don't know." Steve said, his cheeks burning, "I'm sorry. Look, talking to you might've been the longest conversation I've had with a girl. A woman. And I have been having some strange months."

Miraculously, her anger seemed to mostly dissipate, and her expression softened. She breathed deep, and the inside of the car was silent for some time before Peggy spoke again.

"I didn't simply run into you, Steve." She said, "I was here looking for you."

"Why?"

"I knew you before, during the war."

"Oh, so we were friends?"

There was a peculiar pause before she answered,

"Yes."

"Wow." He said, "It's finally happening."

" _What's_ finally happening?"

"You know how in a dream it all feels completely normal, and then it gets strange, and you realize it’s a dream and you wake up? It's happening, this nightmare is about to end."

"You're not dreaming, this is real."

"I just spent the week buddying with a British aristocrat, then I met his Nazi brother, and now I've been kidnapped by a woman out of a Raymond Chandler book."

Peggy rolled her eyes.

"Steve, listen to me; You're not dreaming. I'm real. My name is Peggy Carter. I worked with you during the war. You underwent a procedure that changed your body drastically. You underwent training at Camp Lehigh and Fort Benning, did a stint in the USO, and were deployed in late 1943. It's real, all of it."

"Yeah, okay. If you're real, why didn't General Philips or Captain Falsworth or any of the others mention you? I met a whole bunch of people that I was supposed to be friends with, why weren't you with them?"

She didn't look angry or incredulous this time, but sad and guilty, not the effects Steve had anticipated his words to have.

"It's complicated."

 

 

In this strange limbo that was now his life, Steve had been numb for months, but on that night he fially felt something; worry. He followed Peggy Carter down the hotel corridor, both of them barefoot, holding their shoes in their hand, so as not to wake anyone up, per her instructions.

"I've rented a room here for the past week." She said, and then looked toward him hopefully.

"So?"

Her hopefulness disappeared, and she looked forward and said,

"When someone comes checking the books, I'll be less likely to stick out. We'll be gone by tomorrow noon."

"Gone where?"

"All in good time."

Right then, Steve knew he had enough. He was determined to find out what she was not telling him as soon as they got in that room of hers, and began to recall the few time he used cruel language and the many times such language was used on him, hoping to draw inspiration in the coming moments.

That determination evaporated when she began to unbutton her overcoat, and once she removed it. She wore a very flattering red dress that clung to her just enough to show how full of curves she was. Steve realized there would be no cruel talk on his part, at least because there was little chance of him managing to produce anything resembling discernable language at all. It was rude to stare, as he well know, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Well?" she asked expectantly, spreading her arms a bit as if she were on display.

His mouth had gone so quickly dry, and when he talked, his voice was raspy. He said,

"Well what?"

"Nevermind." She said and looked down, seemingly disappointed.

"Was ridiculous anyway" she muttered under her breath, "Too hopeful, Carter… And vain…. _Stupid!_ "

It was strange, seeing someone who might've been as crazy as he, if not crazier. In a twisted way, he didn't feel quite alone for once.

"Would you sit down?" she asked as she leaned against the table. He obligingly sat at one of two wooden chairs by the door, and nervously tapped his foot on the floor boards.

"What's your last memory before everything changed?" she asked as she sat on the bed.

"Nothin'. I mean… I don't know. It was just like any other day."

"Surely you can remember something?"

Steve grimaced uncomfortably. Thinking about the schism between life as he knew it and the place he now inhabited wasn't something he liked to do. It made him restless and tense, feeing as if the world was about to break.

"I met with someone at the W.P.A. They were considering hiring me as a muralist."

"Had Bucky shipped out at the time?"

"No. He was on leave, staying with me back at the neighborhood."

"So you don't remember the 'The World Exposition of Tomorrow?'"

"I don't even know what that is."

"It was a fair for exotic new technology. You were there with Bucky. He was leaving for England the morning after. You were about to attempt to enlist in the Army for the sixth time, and you two had an argument where you spoke passionately about the importance of doing one's duty. A man called Abraham Erskine overheard you. I'm assuming they've told you this?"

"They told me about Erskine. He was the scientist that’s supposed to have made me like… _this_."

"Well," she said, "I thought we could visit his resting place and pay our respects."

"Why?"

"He was more than just a scientist, Steve. He was a good man, and as brief as the time you knew him, he was like a father to you."

"Where is he buried?"

"Augsburg."

"That sounds like it's in Germany."

"It is. He was initially buried in Queens, but after the war was over his remains were exhumed and moved to his home town, in accordance with his will."

Steve looked at her blankly for a moment, knowing for sure he wasn't the craziest person in the room.

"I don’t even know who you are, and you want me to go to Germany to pay my respect to someone I don't even remember?"

"Yes."

"Well…" Steve stammered, "I don't think I will."

"I understand how you're going through, Steve."

"You don't." he said sharply, "You really don't."

"Alright. I understand that you're confused, and alone, and perhaps even afraid."

Steve looked down at his feet, feeling a twinge in his heart. She got off the bed and walked over to him, then sat at the wooden chair next to him.

"You've woken up in a world where you know no one and everyone treats you like something you don't know if you are. You don't know what's real and what's not. You don't know if you're alive or not. I can't convince you anything I say is the truth, but I want you to trust me."

"That's a little too much to ask."

"If this is a dream, then what difference does it make?"

"If this is real, then why should I come with you? Ever since waking up I'd had a lot of people paraded in front of me, had pictures dropped in my lap, all of people I'm supposed to know. If we really do know each other, why didn't anyone tell me about you before?"

"They don't talk about me," she said, her voice changed by the lump in her throat, "Because I'm not a terribly liked person at present. There was a time when I carried out General Philips' orders, when I oversaw your unit's operations. Then I made a mistake and I was out."

"What kind of mistake?"

"The kind too awful to bear speaking of."

"You know, that doesn't make you seem trustworthy." Steve said, an unintended scoff snaking its way into his tone.

"People in glass houses, Steve. You used to lie on your enlistment forms." She said, then reached into her pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.

"Here. I had a feeling you wouldn't believe me."

"What is it?"

She handed the paper to him, and he unfolded it with shaking fingers.

It was her, depicted in a sketch drawn in charcoal. Her hair style was different, she was smiling, and for some reason she wore a Stola as if she was a lady of ancient Roman society, but it was definitely her. The art style was instantly recognizable as his. That kind of stuff could be faked, and he himself had copied other artist's styles for exercise, but it was too good.

"After we thought you'd died, I found it among your affects." She explained.

Steve was no stranger to embarrassment, and he'd had plenty of it since meeting Peggy hours earlier, but that moment topped them all.

"I must admit I rather like it." She said.

"I'm…I'm sorry."

"Now do you believe me?"

"I guess."

"So you'll come with me to visit Erskine?"

"How are we even going to manage that?"

"I have contacts. I've already made all the arrangements."

"Well…" Steve said and sighed.

"Okay."

"I promise everything will be alright, Steve."

Being given reassurance by a beautiful woman was a new sort of feeling. He wasn't happy about any of it, and was definitely not sold on the idea of running away from General Philips' men toward Germany, of all places, but he was having a hard time talking himself out of following her. If this was a dream, she was his favorite delirium.

"We should turn in for the night."

"Uh..."

The last girl he shared a bedroom with his mother. The idea of doing so with Peggy unsettled him, but he realized the necessity. He wouldn't try anything funny, he wasn't the type to, but he realized sleeping was going to be a real problem. He also suddenly realized that Peggy was dangerously close to him. For some reason, her face was bearing ever close to his. Her eyelids dropping, she breathed slower, and his eyes and lungs were following her lead.

"I…"

"Uhm," she sounded as she stopped, opening her eyes fully.

She got off her chair, and went to a suitcase at the foot of the bed.

"I'lltakethecouch, ofcourse."

"Right." She said, "Would you… Would you leave the room so I can change?"

"Cando."

He was only too eager to leave the room. He moved awkwardly, and in the corridor outside, worried about someone seeing him as he waited for the embarrassing physical effects of his predicament went back to its natural state. A couple minutes later, she allowed him back in. The lights were off, with just enough coming through the thin curtains to allow him to see a little bit of his way around.

"I've left a spare robe and a blanket on the couch."

"Thanks."

He disrobed in a hurry, resisting the urge to joke that she should look the other way; it wasn't a good time to act like an idiot.

"Good night." He said as he lay on the couch, the robe around him and the blanket over him.

"Good night."

Steve had the hardest time getting to sleep, and when he did it was very light. He was the lucky one, as unbeknownst to him, Peggy got no sleep at all.

 

 

You wouldn't need to see the man's Army service Greens bearing silver oak leafs to tell that he was a soldier, as everything about him screamed the fact; the neatly trimmed hair, the steady, dignified posture and the fierce glint in his eye. Even among the masses of fighting men produced by the now two-years-over war, he stuck out.

He was Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Ross of the United States Army, late of the 17th Airborne Division. A black government car took him through Bolling Field to meet the man who'd summoned him, Brigadier General Chester Philips, a man he'd greatly admired.

Philips was one of the Dallas Philips', a family much like the Washington Ross', were renowned for their military service across the generations, reaching back to the Revolutionary War. As a Lieutenant, Philips had served alongside Ross' uncle Marcus as one of America's first tankers, and had since been a friend of the family. He stood outside a hanger with bespectacled Captain, and when saluted, returned the salute, allowed Ross to be at ease, and shook his hand fondly.

"Nice to say you again, Alex." Philips said, "How's the wife and kid?"

"They're great, sir."

"Is Thaddeus talking yet?"

"He is. Just last week I got him to say _'Hooah'_."

Philips smirked briefly, before resuming his usual serious demeanor.

"I wish I'd ordered you here to catch up, but I haven't."

"I didn't think you did. What do you need, sir?"

"We found Captain Steve Rogers back in March. Alive."

Philips paused to allow the information to properly register. Ross was profoundly surprised, but like any West Pointer worth his salt, he did not allow it to affect his composure and merely asked,

"How is he?"

"Missing. When he found him, he was healthy, but he didn't remember a day of his time in the Army. The headshrinkers recommended we jog his memory by getting him to see all his old friends. He was invited by Captain James Falsworth, his old Second-in-Command, to visit him in England. We had our men tail him, but they lost him when he went to a pub on his own. Or I should say he was abducted."

"Abducted by who?"

"The one friend we didn't get him to see."

The Captain, whose name plate read Stoner, presented Ross with a dossier marked with the SSR's seal and a red stamp that read ' **BURNED** '.

"Margaret A. Carter. British national." Philips started with a faint hint of a growl as Ross leafed through the dossier.

"Unremarkable background; father was a mailman, mother is a librarian, two older sisters, one younger brother at MI-6.  She used to be a Lieutenant in S-O-E, did undercover work in Germany and helped us rescue Abraham Erskine, the scientist behind Project Rebirth. She became an Operations handler with S.S.R. during the war…. And she was Rogers' sweetheart. We don't know if he recognized _her_ , but we know he went with her willingly."

"Sir," Ross said as recognition began to settle, "I think I've already heard of this woman. Isn't she-?"

"Yes she is." Philips shot, indicating he did not want to discuss the culprit any further, "You made quite a name for yourself hunting down escaped Nazis these past couple of years, how would do you feel about hunting down Captain America?"

Ross didn't have to consider it. As he was the type to get things done, his answer was prepared even before he knew the mission.

"Yes, sir. I'll get it done, whatever it takes. What about the woman?"

"I want her alive, if possible, but your main objective is Rogers. Are you sure you're up to this? I know you're capable, but some men would have strange feelings about the mission."

"With respect to Captain Rogers, his circumstances qualify him as property of this man's Army, one we can't loose again, particularly not to a foreign power."

Philips might not have shared the exact same sentiments, but was pleased enough with Ross' answer, and he said,

"You get this done, Alex, and I'll see you get your full bird. Captain Stoner fill you in on all details your flight. Good hunting, son."

 

 

Steve would come to learn that their road to visiting their mutual friend's grave would be a long, scenic one. In the morning after that first night, Peggy was in a more forthcoming mood, though how forthcoming Steve wasn't sure. She said that she'd been in contact with some expert minds, the best qualified to opine on the subject of amnesia, which was admittedly not something they were sure they knew enough about.

His memory loss, she explained, could persist anywhere from a few more days to the remainder of his life. There wasn't a surefire way of restoring his memories, the closest thing they had was to introduce him to stimulants that should have be familiar and hope for the best.

Steve already knew that, Drs. Reinstein and Stanhope of the SSR said the same thing, but whereas Stanhope had arranged for Steve to meet his _friends_ and acquaintances and to get his medals and mementos, things that might've felt good for 'Captain America', there was another school of thought of which Peggy was a follower, that believed was no more potent stimulant than sorrow and calamity.

"You're not a war hero, you're a soldier." She'd mused, "You exist on a battlefield, not in a parade."

And so a few days later, he found himself with Peggy in a somewhat dilapidated town in Normandy, watching as  Peggy offered a few francs to a dainty teenaged girl collecting donations going toward a fund for the restoration of the destroyed fountain in the town square.

"You jumped into Normandy before D-Day…" Peggy explained, guiding him to sit next to her on a rickety wooden bench, "Originally, the brass wanted you to lead the first company to land on Omaha Beach. Bloody good job they changed their minds, you and your men would have been killed. _Probably._

"Our intelligence claimed that Hydra had a weapon's cache in this town, but in truth they had a whole new batch of Tesseract weaponry and two battalions worth of troops, including artillery, anti-air and armor, all together a force that could've made Operation Overlord a catastrophic failure.

"By that point, your commandos had destroyed two Hydra installations, so you weren't a beginner, but you still realized the parameters meant you had to adjust the plan. You withdrew from the town and amassed a force of sixty men. They were mostly from the French resistance, it'd come handy that Dernier was something of a legend among their ranks, but there was also a squad of Canadian pathfinders.

"You picked your time and led them into Chanson, and fought Hydra till the bitter end. Only a single Hydra tank was able to escape the assault, but it thankfully never made it to the beach. Your actions allowed thousands of soldiers to complete their mission, and some of those to get home; for that you were awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for a second time, and later the Croix de Guerre.

"But of the sixty men you recruited on that day, only _four_ survived. Before then, you'd only ever led the Commandos, or a Platoon of SSR troops at most. You'd never led a force that large and you never lost a _single_ man. Bucky told me that after the battle, he found you wandering through the town square, stepping among the bodies of the men you led and the ones they fought, blood clinging to your uniform, caked with the ashes of men obliterated by Hydra's arms.

"You blamed yourself, thinking that there was some way that you could have done more. Bucky and Falsworth tried to ease your conscience, as did Philips in his own gruff way. In a few days you seemed to have recovered, and were back behind enemy lines, fighting continuously until August when the campaign ended. That was when I recognized you still carried a burden that could never be lifted."

Steve made a fist inside his coat pocket to beat the tremor in his hand away. He was drawing a blank, and couldn't even imagine what Peggy was describing, but he was feeling uneasy, a sharp discomfort gnawing at the back of his shoulders. He wanted to leave, run, shed his whole body and never look back. The feeling that the world was about to break was back.

Peggy placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and looked empathically into his eyes. Instead of asking him how he felt or what he could remember, she asked him if he was hungry. They had lunch, and spent the rest of the day walking about before returning to the inn and going to bed in separate rooms. In the following morning, they'd move on.

In weeks that had passed, they went from one idyllic French town or lush spot of countryside after the other. Everywhere they went, she'd tell tales of woe occurring on that spot, about his past exploits as a commissioned officer in the United States Army and the rag-tag band of reckless customers that followed him. When she was done, she'd drop the subject, only rarely asking anything of Steve, and they would spend the rest of the day in leisure before moving on.

Though he was never reminded of anything, her tales often left him wistful, filled with a vague awareness that something **was** missing, like verses of poetry is a language which's words he no longer remembered the meaning of. More and more, his once overwhelming belief he was having a drawn-out nightmare was fading.

 

 

Eventually, they arrived at Paris. It wasn't New York, but it was just as beautiful in its own way. He wished to see as much of it as was possible, but Peggy had insisated they take in a movie as soon as they got off the train.

The theatre wasn't particularly full, but then it wasn't a particularly good movie that was about to begin, nor was it particularly recently released. There were perhaps a dozen or so other people, and Steve and Peggy were the only two sitting next to each other.

Steve glanced aside to see Peggy reach for her bag of pop corn. She picked out two bits a time and tossed them into her mouth. Even after averting his eyes, Steve couldn't help but smile. He was visiting gay Paree with the most beautiful creature he'd seen in his whole life, no matter how wistful he felt, looking at her always made him suspect he might dreaming after all.

"Why are you smiling?"

She didn't sound annoyed, merely curious. Steve was thankful for the darkness of the matinee, as it made his severe blush hard to notice.

"It's nothing." He said, burying the smile, "I just used to sit in Brooklyn movie theatres, watch the newsreels, dreaming about going overseas to France or wherever, to fight on the frontlines, to serve my country. I finally get to France. And what am I doing? Sitting in a movie theatre."

A memory of a despondent conversation carried out in the rain passed through Peggy's mind, it was both savory and painful, like a dozen other memories Steve obliviously reminded her of these past couple of weeks. Momentarily, she wondered what would happen if she put his arm around her shoulders and leaned her head against him. His head might've spontaneously gone up in flame, and the poor oaf had enough on his mind without the confusion.

Ten minutes after the film began, a man in a brown suit and a fedora walked in and sat in the row right behind them.

"Hello, all." He said in a British accent, "How's the fugitive lifestyle suiting you?"

Steve froze in his seat, but Peggy remained calm.

"Steve, this is Harrison." she said, her eyes still on the screen and two bits of popcorn in her nimble fingers, "He's my little brother."

Steve turned in his seat, momentarily wondering if Peggy would approve. The younger Carter extended a hand which Steve shook. He was a chestnut-haired and didn't look younger than Peggy by much but shared her good looks.

"It's Harry." he said with a roguish smile, "No one calls me Harrison except for Molly over here."

"Hi." Steve said, "Sorry, have we met before?"

"Can't say we did, I was in the Navy. You saved a good friend of mine in Holland, though, so I'm glad to see you are up and about. My sister told me so much about you. I'll help however I can."

"Oh, thank you!"

"That being said, if you do _anything_ to hurt her, I **will** tear off your _Sergeant America_ with my bare hands."

"….I… um…"

"God, Harrison!" Peggy exclaimed exasperatedly, "This isn't the time!"

"Don't be such a girl, Molls." Harrison said, cheerfully yet menacingly, as he leaned back into his seat, "Rogers always sounded like a stellar chap, I'm sure he understands."

Steve went back to his previous position, looking at the screen uncomfortably as the siblings around him had their hushed conversation.

"Right." Harrison said, "The Americans know you two are on the run together. No, they don't know exactly where you went, but that's not to say France isn't going to be on the radar. If I were you, I'd evaluate how necessary it is to be here and be on my way out sharpish."

"How's your standing at the office?" Peggy asked with concern.

"That's top secret, I'm afraid."

"Harrison…"

"It's alright, Molly. Don't worry about me.  Look, the way things are, I really can't tell you anymore. Your escapade last year was embarrassing, but survivable."

Peggy sighed.

"The old man misses you, you know?" Harrison said, "Mother, too, but she knows you can take care of yourself."

"You'll tell them I'm alright?"

"Of course. How are you on passports?"

"We're fine."

"Good."

Harrison handed Peggy an envelope.

"There's some cash and a letter of transit in there."

"Letter of transit?"

"There's an aeroplane at Orly departing to Munich every night this week, carrying various disreputable characters. No one will bother you if you show them this letter. Don't talk to the crew, don't talk to the other passengers, in fact, don't even talk to each other until you land."

"I understand."

"And whatever happens, stay away from London."

Harrison stood up.

"I better be on my way. Molls, don't do anything exceedingly stupid. That's _my_ bag."

"Love you. Goodbye."

Steve felt Harrison's hand fondly squeeze his shoulder.

"Rogers, good luck, and remember what I said about your todger and my bare hands, eh?"

**  
**

"Etwas?" Peggy asked, looking among the scattered groups of the bereaved and mourning who walked among rows of tombstones in Augsburg Protestant Cemetery.

Steve stared at the headstone for a few seconds more. He'd been staring at it for the past few minutes, raking his brains as Peggy placed some flowers and recited the prayer of intercession. He wanted to conjure a memory of the man buried beneath them, to remember how he spoke or how he cast his eyes at him.

"No. Sorry." He finally said, "I can't remember anything."

"You don't have to be sorry. Do you understand what the words mean?"

"It's in German. No." Steve said as he shook his head, " _Do_ I speak German?"

"Not really, but you could read and understand quite a bit."

Steve shrugged.

"Must be something else I can't remember."

"Yes." She said, "That must be it."

Years of working in the intelligence field had taught Peggy to withhold information by default and to pick the right time to use it. Telling Steve that in saying he couldn't remember anything about Erskine, he was doing so in response to a German word wouldn't have served a point.

But it proved something vital. It proved that there was a chance, perhaps, that somewhere in the recesses of his mind, there might have been a piece of Steve left. It was a spot of hope, the first she'd had in some time.

In her mind, a solution to Steve's dilemma was beginning to form.

 

 

Steve knew he was in trouble.

He mostly stopped believing he was dreaming, crazy or in a coma. He more or less believed what had been told for months, that he'd fought in Europe as an Army Captain. Of course the implication was that he'd been running around against the government's orders, with some mystery lady he knew next-to-nothing about. Steve wasn't the most rule-abiding person, as he _did_ lie on his application forms as Peggy had point out the night he met her, but his present situation was taking it unquestionably too far.

The thing was; he trusted her implicitly. Steve loved his country and respected its laws, and the girl called Peggy was hiding something by her own admission, something serious, and yet he hung on her every word. It wasn't that she had the prettiest face he'd ever seen, something inside him told him that she was the one to follow wherever she went.

He often wondered what she was hiding. The cause of her rift with Philips, Falsworth and the others was something she was reluctant to discuss, but there was something else, possibly about the two of them. On the night he met Harrison, when he went to bed, he wondered if they'd been in love.

In the morning, he thought himself vain for wondering if that was the case. He was Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, and no matter how much height and muscle he got, he was still a clueless oaf who couldn't dance. Sure, she was going through a lot of trouble for his sake, and she didn't seem to notice or mind it when he did something foolish, except for that _'prostitute'_ thing, but she was probably just a really good friend. Bucky would've gone to similar lengths, after all, and Bucky wasn't in love with him. He just wasn't used to being treated with such affection by any girl who wasn't his mother or a nun.

Of course, that didn't keep him from wondering if _he'd_ been in love with her before. It was possible, as he had grown infatuated with her. It was funny. Months, or rather years ago, he'd dream of finding the dream girl; someone from the neighborhood, someone pretty, and short enough for him to dance with, interested in art, music and literature, and he hoped she was as shy as he was, yet somehow still pursue _him_.

But the girl he'd followed this all over Europe wasn't that girl. She was pretty, alright, but she was also a classy London girl, which had to be as far from a Brooklyn girl as any English-speaking woman could get. She was a soldier that talked and acted like one. She was not shy by a long shot, and she was also a little crazy.

Case in point, after Germany, she'd decided to take him to London after all, despite her brother's stern warning. She promised him that she could handle it, and that Harrison had a misguided, misinformed big brother complex toward her.

Again, her reassurances made him feel safe.

She wasn't exactly the girl of his dreams, but he was infatuated with her. He'd been infatuated with girls before, but perhaps Peggy was a different case.

"Uh… Peggy?" He asked as they walked down busy street, "Do you like art? Or literature?"

She seemed far too nervous for someone whose artistic inclinations were being questioned and quickened her pace as they crossed the street.

"Don't panic, but I think someone's found us."

"Who?" he asked, beginning to panic, barely stopping himself from turning to look.

"I saw Rick Stoner a minute ago."

"Who is he?"

"He's one of Philips' intelligence lot."

"Should we worry?"

"He's a git, but he's operating under someone else. We need to get out of sight." She said turning into an alley.

"Peggy, wait." Steve said, "Why did we even come here?"

"London is where we get you sorted, Steve."

"London? No other place could've done?"

"This isn't the time."

"When _is_ the time?" Steve asked as he grabbed her by the wrist while planting his feet. He'd merely wanted her to halt, but he quite involuntarily exerted enough excess strength so that she spun around, and with a gas, was yanked into his chest.

Steve did not believe what he'd done, and by the gasp she issues and the look she gave him, neither did she. He froze, and felt unable to let go of her arm, fearfully anticipating the inevitable slap.

Instead, she kissed him.

Those luscious, dusky, succulent red lips that had captivated him for weeks gravitated toward his own and gave him a strong peck.

"I know you're confused, and I know I'm not helping." she said breathlessly, looking over his shoulder.

"I promise I'm doing my best and I promise this will be all over soon. You just have to bare with me for a little longer, okay?"

"Okay." He whispered and swallowed hard, savoring her exquisite taste. He let go of her hand and she hurried off again with him following her. Out of the other end of the ally they ducked down into a tube station and onto a tram car.

They sat near the back, with her by the window and him by the isle, and he watched as she trembled and rubbed her arms when the tram started forward, her face a vision of anguish. He couldn't find the courage to ask her why she was scared of Philips' men.

 

 

Arriving at the next station, he followed her out and he kept following her as she kept moving. They darted from one borough of the city to the next, doing so for the rest of the day and all of the night that followed. Sometimes they'd think they'd gotten away and begin to unclench, but there would be a policeman, or a soldier, or a man in a coat who looked too well built or shady, and they'd take off again. In twenty hours, though Steve did not tire, by the time they were walking down that ally in Paddington, it felt like they'd been drifting for months.

He trailed Peggy as she hurriedly shuffled on her way to the friend she claimed could help them. She'd gained a slight limp, brought on by fatigue and strain.

Then there was something about her ankles and the way they shifted one second, and through instinct, he knew to get out of the way as she spun around, brandishing a gun then opening fire.

On the other side of the alley, two men in woolen coats took cover in a doorway, not out of panic, but out of practiced discipline.

" **Run!** " Peggy barked, firing again as she hurriedly backed away.

Though he didn't exactly freeze, Steve was torn whether to follow her lead or reach to her and take the gun away. The two men on the other side of the alley peered back out and tried to take aim with a little too much care, which gave Peggy the opportunity to hit one of them in the leg. He fell to the ground, howling his lungs out, while his friend vengefully returned fire.

There was a flash of light and a spray of crimson out Peggy's upper left arm, and Steve's eyes shot open. She winced at first, and that gave way to a cry that was brief, and then she gritted her teeth and fired again.

It was then that Steve moved. He wrapped an arm around her waste and pulled her away, almost carrying her as he stalked away from their assailants.

A bullet tore into the mortar on the wall two feet away from him, spraying him with tiny bits of stone, and he heard the howling man bark at his friend, scolding him in a Southern accent, demanding that he be careful not to hit their primary.

 

 

"It's over." Peggy said tearfully, the pain gnawing at her with every step she took.

"It's not over." Steve replied, trying to reassure himself as much as he wanted to reassure her.

In yet another underground station, he'd somehow managed to make it with her all the way to the platform before the train was to leave the station without being accosted. Inside the train was another matter. As soon as they walked in, their fellow passengers turned to them, realizing there was something wrong with the two. That being London, however, they let them keep to themselves.

As the train moved, he looked to her and saw she was silently weeping.

"I'll get you to a doctor," he said with a voice he tried to be brave and strong, "Don't worry."

"You don't even remember this city." She said with a pained sigh.

"But you do. Isn't there someone who could take a look at your wound?"

"What's the point?" she sobbed.

"Don't say that." Steve begged, "Please, don't say that!"

He hadn't known her for long that he remembered, but he knew that it wasn't right, her giving up. It wasn't a Peggy Carter-thing to do, it couldn't be.

"We're beat." She said resignedly as she hung her head.

 _We can't be. This isn't how it ends._ Something inside him assured. He squeezed his eyes shut, not caring that many of the passengers were staring at them. He pressed his hand to her arm where she was wounded, hoping to slow the bleeding. He'd helped her with a makeshift bandage earlier, but it wasn't enough. She reacted with a slight flinch, but did not shriek or recoil.

"Then maybe we should stop running."

"I can't…" she said with conviction, "That's… I couldn’t."

"We have to. If you don't see a doctor, you might lose that arm. We'll got off at the next station, wait for them to how up and surrender."

"No."

"They obviously want me alive. Maybe I can talk to Philips and-"

"That isn't how it works. They want you back for _what_ you are, and they want me captured because of what _I did_."

Steve drew a deep breath. For a long time he let her have her secrets, unsure if trying to pry them out was in his right or his ability. He'd also been afraid to find out on some level, but if this was what it had come to, he needed to know.

"Peggy, what did you get yourself into?"

She looked away from him, out the window at the city where she was born and raised. She took in every last bit of it that she could, not fearful, but certain, that she'd never get the chance again. She thought of faces she would never see again; Rose and Maud, her vapid, dimwitted older sisters, god bless them. She thought of Harrison, her favorite idiot, following in her steps as he'd done since he could walk. Mother and father, now in retirement, wanting nothing but for her to leave her line of work and give them grandchildren.

"I was a soldier for almost ten years." She said, pausing to sniffle.

"I heard of what went on in Guernica and I was incensed. I joined S-O-E straight away, convinced someone I was worth more than being kept in the typing pool, found myself a Lieutenant around the time Dunkirk happened."

She was now calmer, but unmistakably sullen. Sunlight shone through the window, illuminating a tear as it slid down her reddening cheek.

"I never told you this before, but I worked undercover in Hydra for a brief period. That's how we got Erskine out of Germany. I joined the SSR after that, as an Agent. I proved myself to Colonel Philips just as I did in the Executive. He valued me, he trusted me… All of them, they all did. But I threw it all away."

She sniffled again, and seemed on the verge of breaking down, but pulled herself together, cleansing the weakness out with a sigh.

"When you were missing, the Navy launched expeditions to find where you'd crashed, kept it up for a year. Eventually, they… We lost all hope. The ships were recalled, and you were declared Killed in Action. I stayed on at SSR, was put in a subunit charged with of rounding up valuable rogue Nazi scientists. There was one scientist I found last year, Erich Werner. He worked under Dr. Erskine when he was still with Hydra.

"After Erskine defected, Werner joined a separate project overseen by Heinrich Zemo, Schmidt's rival. Werner claimed that while never able to create anything approaching a working duplicate of Erskine's serum, but they did manage derivatives. Formulas that could enhance the performance of soldiers in such ways and degrees as to make soldiers more resistant to factors like starvation, cold, and hypothermia. It was a modest success, only applicable to troops fitting certain physiological constraints, but of the handful of soldiers that had received his derivative, there was one that had survived being trapped without food under rubble on the Eastern front for four months.

"I asked him if that was an inherent attribute of Erskine's formula. It wasn't a wise question to ask, he could easily read what I wanted to hear. He said yes, but he'd have said anything to get taken in by the Western allies. Except that he wasn't lying after all."

"I don't understand." Steve said, "Why'd they-?"

"The Soviets intercepted us. I only barely got out alive, Werner didn't. I made my report when I got back, expecting them to act on it and for the search to be resumed, but they refused. Too much expense for something sounding very shady. I appealed to Philips, General Coulson, even Senator Brandt, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were less than a year in the past, and it was nuclear arms rather than biologically altered infantry that was captivating everyone's attention.

"One of the scientists at S.S.R., Philo Zogolowski, I'd assigned him to study the designs for the Valkyrie after Stark was done with them. He performed complex calculations that had lead him to divine where the Valkyie had crashed. He died before he could bring them to anyone attention, but I found the report in his desk. Zogolowski was a bit of a crackpot, and I doubted anyone would've believed him in life. I knew that if the ships were to leave again, I had to make them.

"There were two scientists, incompetent frauds, both, but I'd falsified intelligence to make them seem more valuable than they were. I was sent to recruit them, one at a time, made my report when they got back that the Soviets got them first. It was sloppy, and they'd noticed and began to foster suspicions."

Peggy went on to explain her actions. The game of shadows she'd played with men of power that culminated in the Navy sending ships to scour an area off the coast of Greenland, but it was a game too dangerous to play. Elements entered the equation and matters escalated beyond her control, when it was all said and done, she'd been branded a traitor, believe to be a Soviet agent, loosing credibility and going on the run.

It was all too heady for Steve to fathom. He'd been born the son of Irish immigrants, grew up an insignificant urchin, missed out on years of his own life, and wound up following a woman he didn't understand.

"I've seen how traitors are treated." She muttered, dejected as all hell, the tears now drying on her face, "I can't… _I can't_ go through with it! I can't… I can't go through it."

Steve was at a loss. Conversations in the carriage had grown scarce, everyone deftly trying to pick up what the strange couple were talking bothered about.

"We'll figure something out."

She looked toward him, all brown and red eyes, bright with tears and puffy nosed.

"Kiss me?" She pleaded.

And despite never in the habit of being asked for a kiss, he did as she asked, taking her face in his own and bringing it closer to his. He kissed her, and that was when he didn't remember, but knew, they he'd been in love with her before.

There was a ping, and their lips parted, and he felt something drop in his lap. He looked down to see it was, it was the handle from a pineapple grenade in his lap, the grenade itself in her hand. His eyes went wide as she, her eyes full of grief and shame, said,

"I'm sorry."

Without being delicate, he pried it out of her hand, shoving her further toward the window than she was, and then dove onto the ground, as far away from anyone as possible, planting the grenade firmly beneath him.

"Get away!" he roared, "Get back!"

Panic ensued. The passengers got out of their seats and headed for the other side of the train. Amid shouts and screams, someone was able to open the door that lead to the next, and then passengers spilled out. Only Peggy remained where she was.

Steve didn't know if he'd done enough good or not or what sins he might've committed without realizing, so curled up atop a live grenade on the floor of a London tram car, trembling as he anticipated to learn what it was like to be torn to pieces, Steve Rogers tried to remember the words to the Lord's prayer.

What he remembered instead was the aroma of sunbaked dirt and sweat, and hearing the panicked screams of men as they jumped for cover. He'd never been to Latham, New York, but he could swear that's where it had happened. After that, the rest started coming back, one horrible memory at a time.

He remembered feeling every fiber of his being twisted and seared. He remembered Erskine's bony finger poking his chest twice before life left him. He remembered the slave Camp in Austria.

He remembered Chanson and the bodies of six-hundred German and Frenchmen, their blood and ashes caking the cobblestones of the town square. He remembered the Netherlands and the hopeful push that ended in absolute calamity, the hot-blooded kid from Leeds who saw the Ack-Ack blow the legs from under him as soon as he jumped out of an airplane under a deployed canopy, and lived long enough to land. All for nothing.

He remembered Belgium, sitting out in the snow for weeks, surrounded by the enemy, supplies and ammunition running low, relief distant, re-supplies getting dropped into the German's hand rather than theirs. The kid from Alaska who almost won the Medal of Honor, even thought he lost the ability to form any words even resembling ' _Medal_ ' or _'Honor_ '.

He remembered smell of a clearing in the woods created by artillery and the bloodcurdling cacophony of machine-gunfire, like a rabid choir of murderers. He remembered every son he killed and every father he couldn't see get back home. He remembered every family he was too late to keep together and every action he chose against that might've changed everything and would never know if it would.

He remembered Bucky, hanging on for dear life, his whole body whipping in the wind, desperately clinging on with one hand and reaching out with the other, trying to catch him, and the look in his eyes right before his fingers gave away. A frantic, hopeless look that said;

_'You're Steve Rogers. You're Captain America. You're my best friend in the world. And you're not going to save me.'_

He did not remember the words to the Lord's prayer, and even after quite a few tense moment, he did not learn what it felt like to be torn asunder, neither fact mattered to him as he broke down where he lay, succumbing to years of grief, weeping without restraint for the world to see.

From where she'd sat, Peggy looked on in breathless suspense. It pained her to see Steve like that, particularly as it was her that inflicted him, but she was eager to know with certainty whether her ruse worked or not.

She heard a curse dripping with vitriol and heavy steps approaching. Quick as a whip, she pulled out her gun and aimed it steadily after she'd turned, ignoring the pain the sudden movement caused. A rough, burly Cockney in a wool cap and coveralls loomed before her, having stopped in his tracks. He caught sight of the glare she directed at him, and like many men before him, he realized she was one not to cross. Resentfully, sneeringly, he backed away.

As soon as he was out of sight, Peggy's feet could not get her to Steve fast enough. Her gun dropped to the floor with a resounding klang, and she placed her hands on Steve's shoulders.

"Steve?"

"I couldn't…" he sobbed, unable to find the rest of the words, "I couldn't…"

"I know." She said as she cradled him in her arms, stroking the nape of his neck as he bawled, "It's alright. It's all over. _Shhhh._ "

When the train came to a stop, she kept cradling him and shushing him, trying to calm his soul. When they finally came for her, she surrendered. Her wounds would be treated before she would face the consequences of her actions. Steve was paralyzed with grief the whole time, never speaking. Within hours, he was handed to Lt. Colonel Ross.

Ross was neither fond nor caring, merely courteous as he said, "Welcome back, soldier.", before putting him in a car with him that headed to Heathrow Airport.

It wasn't until they were in flight did he speak to Steve again, asking, without any genuine concern, " Are you feeling alright?"

"No." Steve mumbled, burying his face in his hands.

 

 

One night, drinking in the corner of a crowded bar by himself as happy, young people milled about and socialized, he remembered the red dress. It was the night he asked Falsworth and the boys to join his side, when a pretty girl came up to him as he talked to Bucky, all pretty hair, full lips and soft curves, and promised him a dance.

The girl in question was in prison, awaiting trial. The British government had washed its hands of her and so she was left at the Army's mercy. She'd be hanged within a year, and Steve knew there was little hope of anything else. So he begged, and pleaded, with General Philips, Senator Brandt and anyone who would listen. He explained why she did what she had done, vowing to do whatever they wanted in exchange for leniency.

The General looked at him with pity, the Senator with indifference, before they denied him.

His memories had been coming back in drips and gushes. Sometimes he would hear a musical composition and be reminded of the quiet hours spent in one European town after the battle was won and before he was ordered to advance somewhere else, or he'd hear laughter and recall a lewd joke that Dum-Dum had told him over beer, but he knew no matter what he remembered, nothing would ever ease the pain of losing the two people he loved the most.

Weeks went by, as they'd gone before he went to England. There were no more promises of peace to keep him going, no future to dream of, and no dance to get to. He was numb, dying, and alone.

Around him, there was a sharp yelp, an exhilarated utterance of the word 'Yes' followed by rejoice as a young lady agreed to her beau's marriage proposal. The bride-to-be was a waifish, pretty little thing with big round eyes and shinny blond hair, while her groom was a smallish sort wearing spectacles, a smart business suit, slicked-back hair and a dopey grin, who declared everybody's next round would be on his dime. Steve winced as he closed his eyes and took one last gulp of the bar's hardest whiskey. He got up and waded through the crowd, wanting no part of their revelry as his own heart beat duller and duller.

He buried his hands in his coat pockets as he stepped outside and began to ramble. It was a November night in New York,  time and place to get home as soon as possible, or ramble on for hours with every thought you avoided rolling around in your head.

 

 

"Wakey-wakey, you bum!"

Steve opened his eyes, the morning sunshine hurting him for a second before they adjusted. He was face-to-face with the hardened visage of an Italian man of thirty, with the irritable scowl he'd seen every sported by two-out-of-three Platoon Sergeant he'd seen during the war.

Hours earlier, Steve had sat down at a bus stop, somewhere in the Bronx. He wasn't tired and his legs didn't ache, but he wasn't in a walking mood anymore. Instead of eventually standing up and walking away, toward home, perhaps, he'd simply fell asleep.

The Italian was a beat cop, probably at the start of his shift, called Officer Castiglione. He grabbed Steve by his lapel and hauled him to his feet. He shook him about, and was speaking sharply, but Steve failed to listen, taking notice to two men step out of a Packard. They wore tan suits and gray fedoras, and walked straight to Castiglione. The shorter man tapped the cop on the shoulder while his larger partner flashed a military badge.

They were S.S.R. Agents, the tail Philips had put on him for the past few weeks, who kept an obvious, but nigh-inescapable presence. For a couple of minutes, while Steve silently leaned against a wooden divider, they talked to Castiglione, dissuading him from his intent to haul Steve in for vagrancy.

Eventually, Castiglione walked away, looking back with a look of contempt in his eyes, as the two agents lingered.

"Are you alright, Captain Rogers?" the shorter man asked.

Steve simply stared at him vacantly for several seconds, before brushing past him and walking down the street. The shorter man scoffed, and muttered, "Man with a plan my ass. Ain't even worth getting out the car for anymore."

The disrespect fell on Steve's ears, but made no impression. Neither the close brush with a day in the stir nor the bemused contempt he was regarded with mattered to him, there was something far more pressing on his mind, a special, vivid memory he'd got back when Castiglione had him by the jacket, that of **Operation Krampus** , to the last detail.

Toward the end of 1944, Lt. Col. Jim Fletcher of O.S.S., who'd been undercover in Germany since the late thirties, was discovered and arrested in Austria. The Howling Commandos were dispatched to see that didn't happen. The squad was able to anticipate the route the armored car would take and prepared an ambush. The operation was a startling success, all squad members and Fletcher got away without a scratch and made it to the extraction point without incident.

The United States wasn't Austria, neither did their armored cars resemble each other, but the fundamentals were the same. Could what have rescued an American hero also save an English perceived traitor?

Steve decided to give it some thought as he began to walk again, not out of despair, but with purpose and conviction. He walked, and kept walking from one borough of the city to the next, knowing the tail was still on him. The benefit of coming back from the dead and then embarking on a continent-spanning dash with a rogue agent was that people stopped caring that you acted inconspicuously.

Come midnight, his feet brought him back to his apartment. In his mind, he'd formulated a rough plan to recreate ' _Krampus'_ on US soil. He jotted a few things down on a piece of paper before passing out on the couh.

He woke up at dawn. He didn't remember anything further, but found Harry Carter sitting in the armchair, wearing the cap and jacket of a cab driver, brandishing a suppressed Walther which he steadily trained at his chest.

"Hullo, Steve." He growled. Just like in that Paris movie theatre, he was both menacing and genial.

"Harry Carter?"

"Oh your memories are working better? That's nice. You'll remember then, what I'd told you about my sister getting hurt?"

"I didn't-"

"I don't care. She gave up everything for you, and in the end, you didn't even-"

"How did you get in here? There's two SSR agents camped outside."

"Four. I'm MI-6, pal, how'd you _think_ I made it here?"

"Yeah…" Steve muttered calmly, "That's impressive."

"What?"

Even from his position, Steve knew he stood a great chance at disarming Harry without serious injury, but doing so would have alerted the agents outside, and Steve didn't want that. So he started talking, trying to convince the vengeful brother to put down his gun.

It was a tense hour before the situation was alleviated. Harry listened to Steve's plan, his involvement soon becoming implicit. He was to be the one to pull it all together, as Steve couldn't do so himself without causing too much suspicion. He didn't apologize for his earlier actions, and had implied that their truce was tied to the success of their plan, but the plan had begun to come together.

Two days later, after Harry had left to follow up on the first set of Steve's instructions, Steve got on a train to California.

 

 

Getting an appointment with Howard proved difficult, so he waited out on the sidewalk by his mansion, ignoring the doorman's demands that he leave, until Stark returned in his custom-built car chauffeured by his man Jarvis.

Inside, the industrialist who'd found even greater wealth after the war was over, poured two drinks as he joked. He offered to put him up at the mansion while he stayed, and suggested he introduce him to a particularly patriotic film starlet that he was friends with.

"I'm not as gullible as one of your film starlet squeezes, Howard." Steve said, "I know you knew about what Peggy was planning to do, and I know you helped her, but let her take the fall."

Stark didn't react with anything but a mild tremor in his pouring hand. Rogers was always smarter than he looked, that was why he avoided visiting before when Philips repeatedly requested he do so, fearing he'd put two and to together.

"I didn't _let_ her do anything." He said, keeping both drinks in his reach, deciding he needed the alcohol more than Rogers did.

"Did you, uh…?"

"I would be still stuck in a block of ice if you didn't do it. Thanks." Steve said, "Besides, she didn't give you up, and neither will I."

"Much appreciated."

"You're welcome. I'd like six-thousand dollars. Can you spare that?"

Stark looked at him with astonishment. There was nothing about Rogers' expression to imply he was anything but completely and utterly serious.

"For what?"

"Expenses." Steve answered matter-of-factly, "I'd also like some equipment. Those non-lethal electric assault-rifles you once told me about, have you managed to build them yet?"

 

 

 **Manhattan** **, New York** **City**

 

**December, 1947**

Years ago, before Pearl Harbor, he'd go to this bar in Greenwich vilage, to rub shoulders with fellow aspiring artists. Bucky would often tag along, and on most nights, found himself a pretty artist girl, occasionally someone else's date, and took her home.

He hadn't been there for years, and had found that the faces had changed. Gone were Crazy Joe, French Joe, Patty and Elliot, and even Joe the Bartender. He wondered what had happened to them; had they been lost on the battlefields of Europe, or had they given up on the bohemian lifestyle? Were they in a war cemetery if France, or at an apartment in Queens, going to sleep thinking of work tomorrow?

He was sad, but also relieved. He'd worried that someone might've recognized Captain America, or recall the likeness of scrawny Steve Rogers. It had been risky coming here, but he had to do it. He had to say goodbye to New York and to Steve Rogers and everything he represented.

Christmas was around the corner, and _Krampus II_ was set to go.

Harry proved to be a very competent master-at-arms, but then unnervingly intense professionalism must've been in the blood. As Steve was still being watched, he did most of the leg work, gathering the rest of the resources and men needed for the job. He received the equipment that Stark had provided; tear-gas grenades and assault rifles, roughly of the same appearance as a BAR, designed to fire darts charged with enough electricity to incapacitate a man, however momentarily.

He'd also gotten the crew together, and had been watching over them as they holed up in a couple of adjoining cheap motels in Alphabet City.

There weren't any men in the world he would have liked on this undertaking than the men who pulled off Operation Krampus the first time around; the Howling Commandos. He knew that had he called upon them, they would have answered the call, if not out of their friendship to Peggy then out of their loyalty to him.

Except Dernier had a wife and daughter to look after in Marseilles. Morita was married with a baby on the way, as was Dugan. Falsworth had his mother and the family name to consider. Gabe was a smart kid with the potential to go places no black man before him ever did, and was already pursuing post-graduate studies at the Sorbonne. It was too much to ask of any of them, so another crew of the reckless customers was called for.

 _Red_ Hargrove was a New Yorker from Hell's Kitchen, tall and thin with a freckled face and an ever present cigarette holder between his teeth. More than the color of hair, his nickname hinted he wasn't what one would call a model American. He was a barnstormer in his young and flew for the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil war. He also worked for SSR, getting their agents out of hot spots in Axis territory. As far as Steve was concerned, he was a good man and that was all that mattered.

Logan was a Canadian paratrooper, a short, stocky, hairy type with an attitude to match his appearance and an ever present stench of beer, sweat and cigar smoke. During the war he was a fierce and implacable soldier, feared and hated by many, but also a good, honorable man and he and Steve shared a bond of respect.

Harry had brought in Rambling Sid Ridley, a veteran soldier from Birmingham who'd been in SOE. He was mean, surly and entirely disagreeable on any other day, but had owed his life to Peggy from before her time at the SSR, and was determined to see that she was set free by any means necessary.

Harry himself had been in the Royal Navy's Special Boat Section during the war, seeing action in Greece and Burma. While other servicemen looked up to their fathers and uncles, he looked up to his sister, the SOE adventurer. He was extremely motivated, making no bones of the fact that he didn't care about whatever happened for Peggy to be set free.

And there was him, Steve Rogers, Captain America, hero of Assano, veteran of Operation Overlord and the Battle of the Bulge, the Hydra Killer, ready to give up his country.

The gravity of and implications of his designs weren't things that escaped him. He'd be aiding a perceived traitor to the United States, which was paramount to treason itself. Even succeeding, the two of them could only hope for a life spent on the run. He'd be giving up everything, severing every tie he still had.

He loved his country and he respected its laws, but none of that made him love Peggy Carter any less. The prospect of life o the run had plagued him for the past month, but no matter how dreadful it was, he always went back to the same question; was he simply _not_ going to rescue her?

He drank the rest of his beer, paid up and left. It was a December night in New York, the time and place to get home as soon as possible, or walk for a couple of hours, as he'd often done recently, thinking about the caper. Only this time, he'd had the pieces set in place so the men in gray hats didn't find out that he'd disappeared until it was too late.

It was nearly time. As he felt snow land on his coat collar, another rush of memories came back to him. Belgium in January of '45, the night before the planned breakout. Morita was leaning against a tree trunk, puking his guts out and muttering every curse in the book. Dugan was reading the bible, while Dernier looked tearfully at pictures of his family. Steve himself felt calm, without tension or anticipation. Sort of timeless. He felt the same way again. He felt good. He felt like himself. He felt ready.

Peggy Carter helped make him into the man that he was. She'd given him back his best friend, however briefly. She'd made him fall in love with her, twice, and had brought him back from the dead.

He was going to save her, as she had saved him.


End file.
